Strut Your Stuff
by coffeebuddha
Summary: Derek stumbles across a box of pictures from Spencer's modeling days.


Derek was cleaning off the top shelf in the closet when he accidentally knocked the shoe box down. It glanced off of his head, smacked into his shoulder, and spun open, scattering photos everywhere on it's descent to the floor. Since he didn't have any random boxes of pictures just lying around, they had to be Spencer's. Derek cursed under his breath and crouched down to pick gather them up. He frowned as he haphazardly started to rake them into a pile. Most of the glossy squares were flimsy, more like magazine paper than actual photo paper. He picked one up at random and his eyes nearly popped out of his head. Sure, he'd always called Spencer 'pretty boy', but he'd never actually expected anything like this.

In the picture, a younger Spencer looked disinterested and faintly brooding as he strutted down a catwalk in combat boots, an over sized fur jacket, and shiny short shorts. Another picture was a black and white headshot with Spencer's age and measurements on the back. Derek dropped the pictures back in the box and snatched up another one that made his mouth go dry.

Spencer was sprawled on a stark white chaise lounge, looking like a fallen angel in tight, low slung black leather pants, a black mesh tank top, and a studded collar. His hair had been artfully tousled and his eyes and lips were painted black. One long leg was hooked over the back of the chaise at the knee, the other draped over the edge so that his legs were spread invitingly, obscenely wide. One of his hands was loosely gripping the armrest behind his neck, but the other one was resting on the inside of his leather clad thigh. He was looking over his shoulder, his stained lips soft and parted like he was waiting for his lover to come and join him.

Derek swallowed and traced the long, lean lines of Spencer's body with his eyes, his hand slipping inside his loose shorts to stroke his half hard cock. His eyes closed, but the image of Spencer in leather was still seared in his mind's eye. His grip tightened and his breath fastened as he imagined Spencer slowly, languidly pushing himself up and kneeling in front of him.

His hands would be cool and steady as they pushed his shorts off, his eyes narrow with lust at the sight of Derek's hard cock, the tip glistening with precome. Not being the sort to waste time, Spencer would lean forward and lick him, his talented tongue dragging from base to head.

Derek spit in his palm and stroked faster. Spencer wouldn't just lick for long. No, he wouldn't be content with that. He'd want Derek's cock in his mouth, thick and hot and heavy. His pretty, pretty mouth would stretch around it, his lipstick smearing as he rocked up and down the length, sucking and slurping and moaning. Moaning, like he was the one being sucked off.

Because Spencer could act as prim and virginal as he wanted in the office, but in the privacy of their bedroom, he wasn't afraid to admit how much he loved the things that Derek did to his body. Or of how much he loved doing those same things to Derek.

He'd start to speed up, his palm pressed hard against the erection his leather pants wouldn't be able to disguise, his hips moving from the pleasure of Derek's taste in his mouth. Derek curled his fingers tight around his dick, tight like Spencer's throat. He'd moan, whimper, hum, the vibrations traveling to Derek's core, spreading out to his extremities and turning them to jello.

Before he'd come, he'd grab Spencer by his hair, his grip tight and warning, but Spencer would just look up at him, his eyes grinning and daring. And that look is what would push him over the edge. He'd thrust into Spencer's mouth, not enough to hurt him, but enough to make him grunt with just that much discomfort, and shudder through his orgasm.

Derek moaned loudly and jerked as he came all over his hand and shorts. He leaned back on his elbow and tried to calm his ragged breathing.

"You know," Spencer said slowly from the bedroom doorway, "They almost never let us have the clothes from the shoots, but one of the makeup artists 'ruined' that outfit by spilling nail polish on it. It's a little blotchy, but I still have it somewhere. I'm pretty sure it would still fit."

Derek stared up at his lover, a grin stretching across his face. "God, I fucking love you, Spencer."

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**Thank you for reading! Feedback is overwhelmingly appreciated.**

This was originally written for a kinkmeme over on LJ. The prompt was "There's a severe shortage of Model!Reid in this fandom. Either old photos turn up (how else did he support himself and his crazy mother?) or Undercover!Reid now make someone feel all tingly in a new and unexpected way. I pretty much always prefer Hotch/Reid or Morgan/Reid."

Nothing belongs to me.


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